


The Language of Motion

by morethanthedark (Kayndred)



Series: 30 Days of Monster Grantaire [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 30 Days of Monster Grantaire, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magic, Centaur, Centaurs, Courfeyrac and Jehan are cupid, Cultural Meetings, Day 2 - Centaur, Enjolras thinks Grantaire is cute, Everyone is adorable, Everyone is cute, Fae & Fairies, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Mush, Grantaire thinks Enjolras is cute, Mages, Magic, Multi, Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayndred/pseuds/morethanthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”You did that on purpose, didn’t you.”</p><p>[Or - Enjolras gets introduced to cultural nuances, is more than a little nervous, and Jehan and Courfeyrac gently help plant the seed of something wonderful.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language of Motion

**Author's Note:**

> I think of Enjolras as being between seventeen and nineteen in this, because he came out more cute than I’d intended. Whoops! Also hello painfully earnest!Enjolras kind of flirting with probably olderish Grantaire.

Centaurs are weird, Enjolras thinks, sitting on the sidelines of the wide festive circle. The homo-equestrian representative is a strikingly featured dark skinned woman of bay breed, her lower half a delicate balance of fine bones and speed. She gets along well with their doctoral representative, at least, and one of the entourage from the stonefolk, but it is her dignity and grace that had made him take notice of her.

Her companion, on the other hand, is far different.

His torso is pale, a stark contrast to Lor Musichetta’s earth dark skin, his hair a wild riot of ink dark curls. Enjolras watches him, fascinated, as he bends his knees and settles himself beside one of the forest nymphs, Jehan, so that the spirit can braid purple and gold flowers into his hair.

"What’s Grantaire done to you to have your gaze set upon him so?" asks Courfeyrac, the harvest spirit’s eyes also turned to look at the pair. Jehan says something then, and Grantaire laughs with his head thrown back, throat bared to the light, his tail tossing the pollen of the tall grass into the air.

"Nothing." Enjolras replies, turning to look at his companion. Courfeyrac is the spirit beholden primarily to his family’s sprawling farms, although he often has more say over the crops than either Enjolras’ father or their gardeners. "He said little during the negotiations, and what he did say was only statistics and facts - but now he seems more lively."

Courfeyrac gasps. “Are you enthralled, little Mage? Has the Lor Musichetta’s greatest story teller and artist wrapped you in some spell?” His eyes are full of good humored teasing, so Enjolras doesn’t push him off the bench as he might have.

"No, but he is intriguing. None of our horses have a color to match his, nor have I seen any other of the centaur contingent of his type." It’s the truth - the centaur’s lower half is a gradient of grey, his stomach and stockings the palest of silvers, while the hair along his back is storm-cloud dark. His tail, like his hair, is an ink spill in the grass. "Did they trade for him from one of the northern Taisies?"

The spirit harrumphs and scratches his head, sending a wave of fresh wheat scent through the air. “I think you should ask him.” He says.

"What!" Enjolras can feel the heat threatening to rise to his cheeks. "You don’t just ask about trade heritages, Courf, you -"

"Ask him to dance, and talk about it."

Enjolras gapes, only just then realizing that the last of the music from the minstrel stage is fading out. A new song will begin, he knows, a peppy dancer’s jig slow enough for even the dignitaries with odd numbered limbs to dance to if they so desire.

"Well?" Courfeyrac’s hand is the spring sun on his shoulder, urging him forward. "Go!"

Enjolras stumbles from the bench, hopping several steps before he rights himself. He tugs the hems of his formal Mage’s vest in indignation while he glares over his shoulder at his friend, but Courfeyrac just wiggles his fingers at him and laughs.

Enjolras spins around and begins to close the gap between himself and the centuarian aid.

It is Grantaire who notices him first, eyes finding Enjolras mid stride while he speaks. His words peter out and he tilts his head to the side, and Jehan, confused, looks about with a frown on his face until his gaze alights on the Mage as well. He turns back to the centaur for a moment - one where Enjolras knows he’s speaking but the angle isn’t right to see his face - before he stands fluidly, bows to the both of them, and then floats off whistling.

Leaving Enjolras to stare at Grantaire and have second and third thoughts about all his life choices ever.

Laying on the ground as Grantaire is makes Enjolras a whole head and shoulders taller, but he has seen him standing next to his Lor and a hill giant, and knows that, upright, their positions would be almost reversed. It is intimidating and strange, but he’s interested too.

"Are you going to speak, Kar Mage, or must I divine your question from your eyes?" The voice knocks Enjolras out of his thoughts and back to the now, his mind registering that Grantaire had asked him a question. 

 _Probably ‘Can you stop staring’',_ a voice much like Courfeyrac’s whispers in his mind. 

He coughs. “I came to ask if you would like to dance.” He says, squaring his shoulders. If he can give rousing and heatedly eloquent speeches on the unjust treatment of familiars and magic users, he can ask a centaur to dance.

Grantaire’s eyes glitter with something that makes Enjolras’ heart flutter. “I would.” He replies, a smile curling his lips into something warm and sweet. Enjolras smiles in turn, pleased, and waits for Grantaire to get up.

And waits.

And waits.

His palms have begun to sweat, both from the early morning heat and from nervousness, and the fact that Grantaire simply continues to look at him expectantly, searching.

"Will you dance with me?" He asks, battling down his confusion. Something is off, but he doesn’t know what.

"I will." Grantaire says, and still makes no move to rise.

After several more achingly long moments of awkward staring and standing - Enjolras  _will not_  shift from foot to foot - Grantaire seems to take pity on him, if the angle of his mouth and the look in his eyes are anything to go by.

Not that Enjolras is paying particular attention or anything.

"You’ve never asked a centaur to dance, have you?" The ink haired man asks, and he must read something on Enjolras’ face because he lets out a laugh that sounds like a musical chord has been struck beneath a human voice. "Here, let me teach you, so that you may woo all the centaur faers and fois at the next meeting. Take a few steps back, if you would." He says, waving Enjolras back.

"When you get closer to me, you bow, because it’s polite." Grantaire says, and Enjolras does as he’s told, dipping as smoothly and gracefully as he can. 

"Thank you. Now you ask if I’d like to dance with you." His eyes are bright with the humor of it, but he doesn’t mock Enjolras, and for that he’s thankful.

"Would you like to dance with me?" He repeats. 

"And now hold out your arm, like I’m a human partner, and lean in a bit." He does, thrilled when one of Grantaire’s hands comes to rest on his elbow. The centaur’s legs unfold and he rises slowly, head bowed, before extending one foreleg in a bow of his own.

"I would like to dance with you." Grantaire says, leading Enjolras toward the dancers by his hand. Enjolras feels his heart flop awkwardly, and focuses on stepping the appropriate distance back when they reach the line of pairs and the song begins.

Dancing with a centaur is strange, their steps set at intervals Enjolras is unused to watching or interacting with. Grantaire is graceful, his movements far more fluid than Enjolras’ own stiff steps, and he can see that the other man finds it amusing even if he doesn’t say anything.

In the end, in an attempt to break the silence, what Enjolras blurts out is, “Were you traded for, Lor Grantaire?” His voice sounds as though he’s got a bone stuck in his throat, and Grantair just looks confused, turning to follow the steps of the dance.

Enjolras continues, hoping to not sound like an idiot. “I mean, you’re of a color we - I - have never seen south of the Mountains, and Lor Musichetta is so dark I had wondered -“

"If I come from somewhere not of the plains lands?" The other man asks, a line of tension that Enjolras hadn’t realized was there fleeing his shoulders. Grantaire goes on. "My mother was - she came from the foothills, and was a grey so pale she might have been the moon descended. My father was a native." The tone he uses does not change, but there is a brief dullness to his eyes when he speaks of his father that makes Enjolras frown.

"Well, you are very beautiful." He says. It is a fact - both Lor Musichetta and Grantaire look like beings out of religious paintings - so his frown only deepens when Grantaire turns pink and tosses his head to look away.

"It’s Tor, not Lor." Is the reply he gets, completely out of the blue. 

"What?" This has nothing to do with anything, and it’s confusing him even more.

Grantaire looks at Enjolras like he is a particularly silly puppy, and Enjolras purses his lips at him even as his heart flops about agian. “You called me ‘Lor’, like Musichetta, but it’s Tor. I’m her entourage.”

"Oh." Well.

Grantaire laughs as they orbit each other in the line of dancing pairs, and the warmth in Enjolras’ chest settles into his bones.

—

"You did that on purpose, didn’t you." Courfeyrac says, fingers working through Jehan’s hair. The nymph only hums in acknowledgement, his smile more than enough of an answer.

From his vantage point at the bench, Courf watches the light catch on the gold and purple embroidery of Enjolras’ Mage’s vest, the faux flowers matching the ones laced through Grantaire’s hair. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic actually has some very amazing fanart by the [unendingly amazing hawberries](http://hawberries.tumblr.com/post/48271910514), which I didn't find out until very recently but IT IS AMAZING. I AM VERY HONORED. Go forth and fawn over it, all of their work and their writing and just them - amazing!
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://morethanthedark.tumblr.com/) sometime!


End file.
